Our Lord has graciously bound our hearts to others on this journey. He has promised to never leave or forsake us and many times He keeps His promise through the hearts of dear friends and sweet fellowship.
Today, I am praying for two families on different sides of the world. Please pray for them too.
**One family came into our lives many years ago. They were ending an amazing adventure of Africa travel and they stayed in our home for nearly 6 weeks. We were forging a life and ministry in a difficult place and they came along side and helped in every possible way. They served, traveled, cooked, peeled beans, played cards, laughed, cried and prayed with us.
Chad and Jennifer Huddleston.
God called them to Japan and multiplied their family and His Kingdom in that place.
Today, they walk along-side a people they love so very much, through pain, suffering and unimaginable loss.
Please pray for them today. And the team of Christians who are serving and giving in the wake of disaster. Their website has current updates and information for donations.
**Another family has been so tightly woven into the fabric of our lives, we feel like we are blood kin.
Ben and Trisha Wall.
When we were teenagers, Trisha was a hero for me. I grew up around her and her family. I knew her mostly from summer camp. She loved God. And she inspired others to love God.
I lost track of her for some years, until she and Ben took a job in East Texas. They served at a congregation with my uncle and aunt. My uncle often asked if I had spent much time with Trisha. He said he had a feeling we would be fast friends.
God took us to that congregation in 2002 and not only did Trisha and I quickly bond, but our husbands did too. Both West Coast boys. Both passionate God-followers.
Over the years, God, by His Spirit has anchored us to each other in indescribable ways. Many miles separate us, but His Spirit will not let us part. I am so thankful for this.
Over the last months, Ben and Trisha have labored under the weight of physical illness. Ben's body has suffered and both their spirits, though enduring, are weary.
Ben has surgery today. Pray that beyond the hands of the surgeons, God's healing miracles will defeat this physical malady. Pray for Ben and Trisha's hearts to be stronger, more tuned to God's voice than ever before.
Nine children are represented by these two couples. As Mom and Dad labor for Christ, please pray for Anika, Josiah, Caleb, Katia, Gideon, Alex, Katy, Elijah and Olivia. May their stories explode with relationship with Christ and may their hearts grow fearless in the Love of their Creator.
So today. Two families. Two different worlds.
One Lord. One prayer.
Be glorified, Abba Father. Be glorified!
Wednesday, March 23, 2011
Saturday, March 12, 2011
Proclaiming in the Dark
“For our struggle is not against flesh and blood, but against the rulers, against the authorities, against the powers of this dark world and against the spiritual forces of evil in the heavenly realms.” Eph 6:12
We are told that Satan has dominion in this world. And we can sometimes see signs of his cruel and unjust treatment.
Last night, around midnight, a woman’s cry punched the quiet of our home. The blows of her pain continued for over one hour. No other sound accompanied her shrieks. No other women joined into the chorus, which indicated no physical death.
No shouts or male voices reverberated. No sounds of physical abuse.
Just a wail. Pain.
We prayed. I asked for God’s angels to come and meet her. Free her. I asked for any allegiance in her heart to evil or Satan, to be turned. Confessed. Changed.
I don’t even know her name.
But I heard the bondage of her heart.
She proclaimed her pain into the silent hours of slumber.
Her current truth contrasted neon against the black night.
We had no choice but to hear.
And so we pray.
And we believe.
“…The reason the Son of God appeared was to destroy the devil’s work.” 1 John 3: 8b
“The God of peace will soon crush Satan under your feet. The grace of our Lord Jesus be with you.” Romans 16: 20
We proclaim the One who has Overcome the World.
Right out loud, in the dark.
Maranatha!
We are told that Satan has dominion in this world. And we can sometimes see signs of his cruel and unjust treatment.
Last night, around midnight, a woman’s cry punched the quiet of our home. The blows of her pain continued for over one hour. No other sound accompanied her shrieks. No other women joined into the chorus, which indicated no physical death.
No shouts or male voices reverberated. No sounds of physical abuse.
Just a wail. Pain.
We prayed. I asked for God’s angels to come and meet her. Free her. I asked for any allegiance in her heart to evil or Satan, to be turned. Confessed. Changed.
I don’t even know her name.
But I heard the bondage of her heart.
She proclaimed her pain into the silent hours of slumber.
Her current truth contrasted neon against the black night.
We had no choice but to hear.
And so we pray.
And we believe.
“…The reason the Son of God appeared was to destroy the devil’s work.” 1 John 3: 8b
“The God of peace will soon crush Satan under your feet. The grace of our Lord Jesus be with you.” Romans 16: 20
We proclaim the One who has Overcome the World.
Right out loud, in the dark.
Maranatha!
Thursday, March 10, 2011
As Evening Fades...
"Atwooki, Bye!"
Araali's call resonates through the house, signaling the end of the work day. Our compound becomes only ours for a brief respite of time.
I hasten through the food prep eager for a moment outside. During this fleeting moment.
This perfect time of day.
The noisy hordes of school children have passed our fence and found their way home. Dinner warms in the oven. The boys explode outside for a few final hours of running and energy spending in the coolest hours of the day.
Evening.
The sun begins to lower dramatically over the mountains that sit majestic guard over our town. The sky displays the spectrum of colors our Creator is choosing for this particular evening. Oranges, red, purples, blues. I am awestruck at the visual and breathe deep of the ever cooling air.
6 PM.
In our first year of life in Ft Portal, 6 PM poured loneliness and despair into my soul. The early evening triggered the impulse to meet with others ending their day of work in our home culture. I missed my parents, our friends, restaurants, malls, Mexican food.
In my first year of adjustment to a completely new and uncomfortable way, 6 PM ushered me into enough stillness to remember all that was left behind.
I cried often, then.
And I prayed. Pleading prayers, asking God to make this my home and comfort my soul.
Somewhere around year three of our sojourn here, I realized that my mind was anticipating the evening hour, not dreading it.
My awareness of this miracle shaded over me much as the shifting colors of the sunset. Gradual. Breathtaking. Awesome.
And now. I long for 6PM. I find my walking path, fill my ears with praise music and drink in the abundance of this place and this life.
His plan and purpose for me. All day, I settle quarrels and hug sweaty boys, encourage math prowess and pray long over ministry. I cook food and clean and organize and plan.
But for some minutes as the sun falls, I walk in the cool air and am embraced. By the arms of my Father who designed this painful, healing time, just for me. Because He knows.
The boys scheme grand adventure and ride bicycles around and around. Sweet girl revels in the quiet house and conquers one more chapter of a book. Too, embraced, by a Creator Who loves them well.
Hungry tummies beckon and darkness drives us into the light of the solar bulbs. Fully loved. Fully known.
A perfect moment.
Araali's call resonates through the house, signaling the end of the work day. Our compound becomes only ours for a brief respite of time.
I hasten through the food prep eager for a moment outside. During this fleeting moment.
This perfect time of day.
The noisy hordes of school children have passed our fence and found their way home. Dinner warms in the oven. The boys explode outside for a few final hours of running and energy spending in the coolest hours of the day.
Evening.
The sun begins to lower dramatically over the mountains that sit majestic guard over our town. The sky displays the spectrum of colors our Creator is choosing for this particular evening. Oranges, red, purples, blues. I am awestruck at the visual and breathe deep of the ever cooling air.
6 PM.
In our first year of life in Ft Portal, 6 PM poured loneliness and despair into my soul. The early evening triggered the impulse to meet with others ending their day of work in our home culture. I missed my parents, our friends, restaurants, malls, Mexican food.
In my first year of adjustment to a completely new and uncomfortable way, 6 PM ushered me into enough stillness to remember all that was left behind.
I cried often, then.
And I prayed. Pleading prayers, asking God to make this my home and comfort my soul.
Somewhere around year three of our sojourn here, I realized that my mind was anticipating the evening hour, not dreading it.
My awareness of this miracle shaded over me much as the shifting colors of the sunset. Gradual. Breathtaking. Awesome.
And now. I long for 6PM. I find my walking path, fill my ears with praise music and drink in the abundance of this place and this life.
His plan and purpose for me. All day, I settle quarrels and hug sweaty boys, encourage math prowess and pray long over ministry. I cook food and clean and organize and plan.
But for some minutes as the sun falls, I walk in the cool air and am embraced. By the arms of my Father who designed this painful, healing time, just for me. Because He knows.
The boys scheme grand adventure and ride bicycles around and around. Sweet girl revels in the quiet house and conquers one more chapter of a book. Too, embraced, by a Creator Who loves them well.
Hungry tummies beckon and darkness drives us into the light of the solar bulbs. Fully loved. Fully known.
A perfect moment.
Thursday, March 03, 2011
It's About Time
(Truest of confessions—I have struggled with the tense of this post. Past and present tense verbs have poured from my heart. What I did then. What I am doing now. I have decided to go with present tense. Primarily because I am not writing about a finished process. I am writing about a cycle that my life continues to churn through. It is my deepest desire to live victoriously, in Christ’s power, over the idolatry I have embraced for far too long.)
Approval.
Even the word makes me happy. The receiving of it produces in me a high that modesty does not allow expression of.
Approval is as satisfying when received privately as publicly. It is not the attention that draws. Just the validation that someone views Me as worthwhile and important.
I have devoted parents and had devoted grandparents. I have the blessing of gracious friends and family. By most worldly standards, I have been successful.
I have received in roses, awards, words of affirmation and adoring love: Approval.
Healthy and encouraging.
It is in my life as a gift.
But through the years, I fashioned it into a savior.
And I set it above everything else.
Achieving the esteem of my family and peers became an “art” and passion that I reveled in and gained applause for.
I’m not sure the exact moment this seemingly innocuous issue grew fangs and poisonous tentacles.
But, painfully, I began to realize that the quest for approval often ended in disappointment. Other’s disappointment in me. My disappointment in others.
Approval, as a savior, wasn’t so very successful. In fact, instead of saving, the focused quest was defeating me. Over and over again.
It astounds me that such a painful and barbed life mate has remained my adoring pursuit for so very long.
Despite the pain and ineffectual efforts, I continue to tuck the idol away and hallow it in my heart. I allow it sole influence in decision-making and sole judgment on my life choices.
Circumstance and life choices inevitably remove the approval of others from my grasp. In painful and heart wrenching developments, I realize that the approval I perceived in relationships was only a fleeting facade. And this breaks me every time. The apparent failure of my well-honed ability to gain (earn) the respect of others is the wound that festers and penetrates my soul. I cannot control what is happening. I am judged.
And my loss closet is opened.
Every moment of just or unjust negative treatment in my life parades in my mind. The precious Word of God surrounds it “Love keeps no record of wrongs…” and I struggle to give His Word sole ownership of my attention.
But the parade marches continual with a drum cadence I do not choose to ignore.
In the defeat of the reminiscing, I cry out to God. (He’s still there)
I repent and confess my self-centeredness. I cry and I mourn the brokenness.
I focus again, on Christ.
I feel the brush of a scar as His hand strokes my cheek and then lifts my chin setting my gaze on His face. To see His eyes. To read His heart. The Heart of God.
This is happening despite me.
Oh, dear friends, how it heals. And hurts.
I have the opportunity, through the wounds of my broken state to have no strength in myself left to even observe the parade of the past. No strength to earn approval back.
The cadence of my parade of loss becomes an annoyance and I crawl into the cocoon of His stillness and peace. I confess and shelter in His Wings.
And the Light shines.
The temptation to focus on other’s thoughts and opinions first, is silenced by the bold and honest voice of a Father Who Knows All Things.
He never compromises the Integrity of His Being to coddle or cajole me. He authentically loves, purifies, illuminates and adores.
I am overwhelmed at how amazing it feels. His Love.
How readily it pours out into broken me. How I am not working or doing or perceiving or knowing. I am just resting. And the love pours excessively into every crack, fissure and open space.
His voice is so much clearer. His Way is bright in front of me. I do not feel sure of the next steps and I must repeatedly confess my worry and anxiety to traverse this road less traveled.
The loud voices are laughing and celebrating and persuading on the other road. The road that I am familiar with. Where approval and accolades and the pleasing of others is an acceptable and expected guiding force. As I turn my head ever so slightly to the recognizable sounds I feel the emptiness expanding. The confusion setting in. The ultimate defeat encroaching.
There is another way.
And I choose.
To hear Only His Voice.
Deliberate and intentional.
And yet, falling short.
I call out to His Spirit, to remind and to teach. (John 14:26) And I step.
I step onto a narrow path, often illuminated one path-stone at a time. And I find there.
Everything. This unknown and unrehearsed walk is the Life I have longed for.
Abundant, thriving Life.
I dance, unencumbered by the pretense that I am in control.
I celebrate, passionate and undignified.
Unashamed.
The Light around me warms me as I am held in the knowing gaze of cherished Truth.
My Lord and My God!
He, who delights in me. And fully knows me.
All these years of comprehending Your presence. And yet choosing my own, hard-to-earn self-saving way.
Now, wholly consumed by my One and Only Savior. Truly free.
Surrendered.
It’s about time.
“Dear children, keep yourselves from idols.” 1John 5:21
Approval.
Even the word makes me happy. The receiving of it produces in me a high that modesty does not allow expression of.
Approval is as satisfying when received privately as publicly. It is not the attention that draws. Just the validation that someone views Me as worthwhile and important.
I have devoted parents and had devoted grandparents. I have the blessing of gracious friends and family. By most worldly standards, I have been successful.
I have received in roses, awards, words of affirmation and adoring love: Approval.
Healthy and encouraging.
It is in my life as a gift.
But through the years, I fashioned it into a savior.
And I set it above everything else.
Achieving the esteem of my family and peers became an “art” and passion that I reveled in and gained applause for.
I’m not sure the exact moment this seemingly innocuous issue grew fangs and poisonous tentacles.
But, painfully, I began to realize that the quest for approval often ended in disappointment. Other’s disappointment in me. My disappointment in others.
Approval, as a savior, wasn’t so very successful. In fact, instead of saving, the focused quest was defeating me. Over and over again.
It astounds me that such a painful and barbed life mate has remained my adoring pursuit for so very long.
Despite the pain and ineffectual efforts, I continue to tuck the idol away and hallow it in my heart. I allow it sole influence in decision-making and sole judgment on my life choices.
“What does everyone else think?”
Circumstance and life choices inevitably remove the approval of others from my grasp. In painful and heart wrenching developments, I realize that the approval I perceived in relationships was only a fleeting facade. And this breaks me every time. The apparent failure of my well-honed ability to gain (earn) the respect of others is the wound that festers and penetrates my soul. I cannot control what is happening. I am judged.
And my loss closet is opened.
Every moment of just or unjust negative treatment in my life parades in my mind. The precious Word of God surrounds it “Love keeps no record of wrongs…” and I struggle to give His Word sole ownership of my attention.
But the parade marches continual with a drum cadence I do not choose to ignore.
In the defeat of the reminiscing, I cry out to God. (He’s still there)
I repent and confess my self-centeredness. I cry and I mourn the brokenness.
I focus again, on Christ.
I feel the brush of a scar as His hand strokes my cheek and then lifts my chin setting my gaze on His face. To see His eyes. To read His heart. The Heart of God.
This is happening despite me.
Oh, dear friends, how it heals. And hurts.
I have the opportunity, through the wounds of my broken state to have no strength in myself left to even observe the parade of the past. No strength to earn approval back.
The cadence of my parade of loss becomes an annoyance and I crawl into the cocoon of His stillness and peace. I confess and shelter in His Wings.
And the Light shines.
The temptation to focus on other’s thoughts and opinions first, is silenced by the bold and honest voice of a Father Who Knows All Things.
He never compromises the Integrity of His Being to coddle or cajole me. He authentically loves, purifies, illuminates and adores.
I am overwhelmed at how amazing it feels. His Love.
How readily it pours out into broken me. How I am not working or doing or perceiving or knowing. I am just resting. And the love pours excessively into every crack, fissure and open space.
His voice is so much clearer. His Way is bright in front of me. I do not feel sure of the next steps and I must repeatedly confess my worry and anxiety to traverse this road less traveled.
The loud voices are laughing and celebrating and persuading on the other road. The road that I am familiar with. Where approval and accolades and the pleasing of others is an acceptable and expected guiding force. As I turn my head ever so slightly to the recognizable sounds I feel the emptiness expanding. The confusion setting in. The ultimate defeat encroaching.
There is another way.
And I choose.
To hear Only His Voice.
Deliberate and intentional.
And yet, falling short.
I call out to His Spirit, to remind and to teach. (John 14:26) And I step.
I step onto a narrow path, often illuminated one path-stone at a time. And I find there.
Everything. This unknown and unrehearsed walk is the Life I have longed for.
Abundant, thriving Life.
I dance, unencumbered by the pretense that I am in control.
I celebrate, passionate and undignified.
Unashamed.
The Light around me warms me as I am held in the knowing gaze of cherished Truth.
My Lord and My God!
He, who delights in me. And fully knows me.
All these years of comprehending Your presence. And yet choosing my own, hard-to-earn self-saving way.
Now, wholly consumed by my One and Only Savior. Truly free.
Surrendered.
It’s about time.
"And we have seen and testify that the Father has sent his Son to be the Savior of the world. If anyone acknowledges that Jesus is the Son of God, God lives in him and he in God. And so we know and rely on the love God has for us...." I John 4:14-16a
Tuesday, February 15, 2011
True Love
Eighteen years ago today, Jeff Cash informed me that I was the girl he would marry. It wasn't so much a proposal (that would come later) as it was a revelation. He had prayed. And he knew.
I pondered the idea with joy but wondered what in the world we were getting ourselves into.
Truth was, I knew it too. We were going to be married. But I needed more time to acknowledge the incredible gift. Jeff's life paths most often went straight uphill and fast. Mine more comfortably meandered and plodded.
God must have known the impact of crossing those divergent paths. He did not give us any warning though. Just sealed us with the covenant of marriage and promised to never leave or forsake us.
Good thing.
Eighteen years ago today, God gave Jeff Cash an idea. I was right about it. We didn't know what we were getting ourselves into. But God did. And He could see, it was very, very good.
I pondered the idea with joy but wondered what in the world we were getting ourselves into.
Truth was, I knew it too. We were going to be married. But I needed more time to acknowledge the incredible gift. Jeff's life paths most often went straight uphill and fast. Mine more comfortably meandered and plodded.
God must have known the impact of crossing those divergent paths. He did not give us any warning though. Just sealed us with the covenant of marriage and promised to never leave or forsake us.
Good thing.
Jeff,
I am remembering our first hike. We had been married three or four weeks. And we were hiking to Timberline. A few hours in and I was miserable and tired. You were energized and thrilled. You carried my backpack together with your own and left love notes for me on the trail to encourage me. I missed some of the messages because I was so frustrated with the hike. There were biting flies and it was SO VERY HOT. You seemed oblivious to those struggles and continuously pointed my eyes to the incredible views and vistas around us. I grumbled. And I quit. You would not give up. You persuaded and encouraged. You waited and you urged. I would eventually dry my tears and move forward. You would applaud. We had so much to learn about each other. In the end, we successfully completed the climb. We celebrated over the most fabulous food I had ever tasted.
We've hiked many "trails" since then. Despite the variety in our journey through the years, it is amazing to me how often we replay that same scenario. (sigh)
By no small miracle or Grace, we have learned a thing or two about each other haven't we?
I didn't miss your love note today. And I am very aware when you lift the load off my back so I can succeed. The view around us is still breathtaking despite the struggles of circumstance, and I am blessed when you remind me to lift up my eyes. My anxiety and fear often eek out despite my best intentions. But walking with you on these trails is the adventure of my life and I truly wouldn't choose to be anywhere else than on the path with you.
A grueling uphill climb. A peaceful plateau. A freezing cold coastline. A Louisiana swamp. A fabulous meal to refuel our strength.
Together.
You are a very good man. I'm so thankful to walk with you.
I love you--Cheryl
Eighteen years ago today, God gave Jeff Cash an idea. I was right about it. We didn't know what we were getting ourselves into. But God did. And He could see, it was very, very good.
Friday, February 11, 2011
For the Next Hour...
“The answers God is willing to give us in our tomorrows often flow from our faithfulness when we have none today.” (Beth Moore John, 90 Days with the Beloved Disciple)
A season. A time. Fleeting.
The seasons don't always feel so fleeting though.
Often, in the narrowness of my own sight, the painful steps seem endless. The seemingly apparent irresolution of suffering looms continual.
And yet..
In Christ…
Circumstances are defined differently. The seen and the unseen.
The Word of Yahweh stands. Forever.
His Word is the path. And the point.
The waiting (while trodding) requires the emptying. The revealing of the “me”. The pouring it out. The continual surrendering of my plans, my understanding.
But “the time spent awaiting further enlightenment and fuller harvest are meant to bulge with relationship”. (Beth Moore John 90 Days with the Beloved Disciple)
The waiting and the pouring simultaneous with the filling and the overflowing.
Relationship with Christ. We are NOT ALONE.
His Word stands. And never returns void.
Let me faithfully walk the next hour, Father, fully cognizant of YOUR WORD expanding US (You and me—what graciousness!), building US, hearing your Voice: it’s tone, inflection, ITS DEEP LOVE. Knowing fully that this endless path is in fact OURS, Yours Lord and mine. And that the “endless-ness” explodes with glory and peace and abundance in You alone. Let me utter trust and faith into the laughing face of failing circumstance and pain. I BELIEVE in YOU.
Find me faithful. Because of the Faith you so graciously provide.
Delight in the Faithful One, dear friends. Irregardless of what you SEE.
Just for one more hour. ☺
A season. A time. Fleeting.
The seasons don't always feel so fleeting though.
Often, in the narrowness of my own sight, the painful steps seem endless. The seemingly apparent irresolution of suffering looms continual.
And yet..
In Christ…
Circumstances are defined differently. The seen and the unseen.
“All men are like grass, and all their glory is like the flowers of the field; the grass withers and the flowers fall, but the word of the Lord stands forever. “ 1 Peter 1:24-25, Isaiah 40:6-8
The Word of Yahweh stands. Forever.
His Word is the path. And the point.
The waiting (while trodding) requires the emptying. The revealing of the “me”. The pouring it out. The continual surrendering of my plans, my understanding.
But “the time spent awaiting further enlightenment and fuller harvest are meant to bulge with relationship”. (Beth Moore John 90 Days with the Beloved Disciple)
The waiting and the pouring simultaneous with the filling and the overflowing.
Relationship with Christ. We are NOT ALONE.
His Word stands. And never returns void.
Let me faithfully walk the next hour, Father, fully cognizant of YOUR WORD expanding US (You and me—what graciousness!), building US, hearing your Voice: it’s tone, inflection, ITS DEEP LOVE. Knowing fully that this endless path is in fact OURS, Yours Lord and mine. And that the “endless-ness” explodes with glory and peace and abundance in You alone. Let me utter trust and faith into the laughing face of failing circumstance and pain. I BELIEVE in YOU.
Find me faithful. Because of the Faith you so graciously provide.
“Not to us, O LORD, not to us but to your name be the glory, because of your love and faithfulness.” Psalm 115:1
Delight in the Faithful One, dear friends. Irregardless of what you SEE.
Just for one more hour. ☺
Friday, February 04, 2011
Snapshots of Grace
I first heard of the ailment when I was in kindergarten. Endearing snapshots emerge from my foggy kid-brain memory. My normally unflappable Dad’s deep concern. Missing school. Granny waving at me as Dad held her up in the bed.
A stroke. Blod clots. Paralyzed.
She spent her days in a brown swivel chair then. With a crocheted lap blanket over her legs. There was a wheel chair that would transport her to the table, to the car, to church and to the bed. Grandpa faithfully took her where she needed to go.
She had pink word cards with names and pictures for her to practice. We celebrated when she would master any word. I can still hear her intentional and rehearsed “I (pause) love (pause) you.” And then her smile.
Another stroke left her unable to sit. Our family moved out the couches and moved in her bed. There would be no sequestered room for Granny. Center. Of. Attention. Just the way she liked it. Or just the way we needed it, to be more precise.
She loved having us all around her. My baby sister would stand by the bed and giggle. Then Granny would giggle. Then Cherise would giggle. And before we knew it, we were all enveloped in raucous, tear brimming laughter. Simply because it felt so good. In the midst of all that struggle.
Two things Granny never surrendered to the strokes: the word “Amen” and the song "Amazing Grace."
She would echo “Amen” after every prayer and she loved to sing that song. I can hear her voice even today. She would pat the cadence of the music with her right hand. Most of the words she could not speak outside of the melody. But with the music, she would sing.
I’ve been thinking of Granny often these last few weeks and mentally flipping through these “snapshots”.
Stroke has crashed in on dear family again and in the wake of it’s crashing, the Lord has brought to our attention several others struggling through the hold of this illness. Jeff’s Uncle Gene fell suddenly just after Christmas. We joined a prayer chain on Facebook for Charlie Middlebrook. I was informed of a blogger (38 yr old mother of two) who suddenly collapsed at her home around the new year. And then, Aunt Clare.
Atwooki Clare and I have corresponded for many years and had close contact in the last few. She was the beloved aunt of my dear friend Rebecca. Rebecca (who we lost nearly 9 years ago) spoke with deep love and appreciation for Aunt Clare and that respect has remained in my head and heart from her adoring reports.
Peace shared on Sunday that Aunt Clare was not well. She had a stroke. She lay in a bed at Buhinga hospital.
I could not match any of the snapshots in my mind with what could be expected in Buhinga hospital. What would stroke look like in this often harsh, third world?
Jeff and I arranged to visit her soon.
I was encouraged that her eyes flashed bright awareness and joy at our approach. She even managed to pull herself to a sitting position and reach for my hand. She was very thin. They told me that she was eating, but could not speak.
I asked her if she would like for me to read to her. Her nodding approval delivered me back to her bedside the next day. I had prayerfully asked God to direct me to a Psalm for Clare.
Psalm 103.
I sat on her bed, held her hand and read:
‘All my inmost being’—as I look into the eyes of an inmost being who has no way to express I was powerfully aware that God hears her cries.
I was crying then. And so was Clare.
Our “youth renewed like the eagles…” how powerfully that speaks to me as I file through the images of Uncle Gene’s rehabilitation, memories of my Granny, holding the hand of Aunt Clare.
“He knows that we are dust… But from everlasting to everlasting the Lord’s love is with those who fear him…”
What we are, physically, is fleeting. Who He is in us, is eternal.
Praying for Uncle Gene and Aunt Marilee, Charlie Middlebrook, Joanne, and Atwooki Clare. May the eternity in your hearts soar to amazing heights. May His great compassion fall powerfully upon your heads and your families’ spirits.
Amazing Grace.
A stroke. Blod clots. Paralyzed.
She spent her days in a brown swivel chair then. With a crocheted lap blanket over her legs. There was a wheel chair that would transport her to the table, to the car, to church and to the bed. Grandpa faithfully took her where she needed to go.
She had pink word cards with names and pictures for her to practice. We celebrated when she would master any word. I can still hear her intentional and rehearsed “I (pause) love (pause) you.” And then her smile.
Another stroke left her unable to sit. Our family moved out the couches and moved in her bed. There would be no sequestered room for Granny. Center. Of. Attention. Just the way she liked it. Or just the way we needed it, to be more precise.
She loved having us all around her. My baby sister would stand by the bed and giggle. Then Granny would giggle. Then Cherise would giggle. And before we knew it, we were all enveloped in raucous, tear brimming laughter. Simply because it felt so good. In the midst of all that struggle.
Two things Granny never surrendered to the strokes: the word “Amen” and the song "Amazing Grace."
She would echo “Amen” after every prayer and she loved to sing that song. I can hear her voice even today. She would pat the cadence of the music with her right hand. Most of the words she could not speak outside of the melody. But with the music, she would sing.
I’ve been thinking of Granny often these last few weeks and mentally flipping through these “snapshots”.
Stroke has crashed in on dear family again and in the wake of it’s crashing, the Lord has brought to our attention several others struggling through the hold of this illness. Jeff’s Uncle Gene fell suddenly just after Christmas. We joined a prayer chain on Facebook for Charlie Middlebrook. I was informed of a blogger (38 yr old mother of two) who suddenly collapsed at her home around the new year. And then, Aunt Clare.
Atwooki Clare and I have corresponded for many years and had close contact in the last few. She was the beloved aunt of my dear friend Rebecca. Rebecca (who we lost nearly 9 years ago) spoke with deep love and appreciation for Aunt Clare and that respect has remained in my head and heart from her adoring reports.
Peace shared on Sunday that Aunt Clare was not well. She had a stroke. She lay in a bed at Buhinga hospital.
I could not match any of the snapshots in my mind with what could be expected in Buhinga hospital. What would stroke look like in this often harsh, third world?
Jeff and I arranged to visit her soon.
I was encouraged that her eyes flashed bright awareness and joy at our approach. She even managed to pull herself to a sitting position and reach for my hand. She was very thin. They told me that she was eating, but could not speak.
I asked her if she would like for me to read to her. Her nodding approval delivered me back to her bedside the next day. I had prayerfully asked God to direct me to a Psalm for Clare.
Psalm 103.
I sat on her bed, held her hand and read:
“Praise the Lord, O my soul; all my inmost being, praise his holy name.”
‘All my inmost being’—as I look into the eyes of an inmost being who has no way to express I was powerfully aware that God hears her cries.
“Praise the Lord O my soul, and forget not all his benefits—who forgives your sins and heals all your diseases, who redeems your life from the pit and crowns you with love and compassion who satisfies your desires with good things so that your youth is renewed like the eagle’s.”
I was crying then. And so was Clare.
“The Lord is compassionate and gracious, slow to anger, abounding in love.
He will not always accuse, nor will he harbor his anger forever; he does not treat us as our sins deserve or repay us according to our iniquities. For as high as the heavens are above the earth, so great is his love for those who fear him; as far as the east is from the west, so far has he removed our transgressions from us. As a father has compassion on his children, so the Lord has compassion on those who fear him; for he knows how we are formed, he remembers that we are dust. As for man, his days are like grass, he flourishes like a flower of the field; the wind blows over it and it is gone, and its place remembers it no more,
But from everlasting to everlasting the Lord’s love is with those who fear him, and his righteousness with their children’s children—with those who keep his covenant and remember to obey his precepts.
The Lord has established his throne in heaven, and his kingdom rules over all.
Praise the Lord you his angels, you mighty ones who do his bidding, who obey his word. Praise the Lord all his heavenly hosts, you his servants who do his will. Praise the Lord all his works everywhere in his dominion. Praise the Lord, O my soul.”
Our “youth renewed like the eagles…” how powerfully that speaks to me as I file through the images of Uncle Gene’s rehabilitation, memories of my Granny, holding the hand of Aunt Clare.
“He knows that we are dust… But from everlasting to everlasting the Lord’s love is with those who fear him…”
What we are, physically, is fleeting. Who He is in us, is eternal.
“Amazing grace! How sweet the sound, that saved a wretch like me. I once was lost but now I'm found, was blind but now I see."
Praying for Uncle Gene and Aunt Marilee, Charlie Middlebrook, Joanne, and Atwooki Clare. May the eternity in your hearts soar to amazing heights. May His great compassion fall powerfully upon your heads and your families’ spirits.
Amazing Grace.
Thursday, January 20, 2011
The Voice of a King
"Not everybody could be famous but everybody can be great because greatness is determined by service."
— — Martin Luther King Jr.
Martin Luther King, Jr quotes have peppered my Facebook updates and inspired my heart this week.
Today though, another King is on my mind.
M.D. King.
Though Martin Luther King Jr. surely has more widespread and well known quotes--it is the voice of M.D. King that is so ingrained in my psyche as to effect my Every Day. To effect the most monumental. To effect my life.
My Granddaddy. I can't remember ever hearing him give a speech. In crowds and groups, he was mostly a quiet observer.
But his persistent adoration and faithful love for all of his family, buoys me even today.
When asked recently by a good friend, to picture in my mind the safest place I could imagine, it was Granddaddy and Mam-ma's house that was immediately evoked.
Did they ever know how LOUD their love would play in my heart? How, even today, as an adult, each wave of adversity is faced with strength from their support. Their "voice" in my life.
That is, in fact, an enduring legacy. One to be noted. And celebrated.
On this, the date of M.D. King's birth, I'll tell my kids his story. I'll "quote" his quotes. I'll mark his service.
I'll remind my offspring of his part of their story.
And we will always call him Great.
Mukama Onyirize
She buried another child recently. There are two graves now with small headstones.
The tears are long past. But the hollowness in her eyes is revealed as we talk.
She shows me hospital notices. We discuss the labored days of care.
I express my sorrow for her loss and we pray.
Her carefully written notes are for Psalm 86.
We read.
As we ponder the words and the Psalmist’s heart…
One message presses into my heart and pours out in explanation.
God is meant to be near.
He is not far off, unfeeling and cold.
He knows the dark and treacherous places that bind us. And he waits there. Longing to set us free.
He. Is. There.
As we weep. When we fail. When we break. In the midst of our ugly, ugliness.
When I prepared to depart she showed me the words of some Rutoro songs she wants to teach to our church. I asked her to sing a verse of the first song.
“Mukama onyirize…” repeated throughout the chorus.
She smiles awareness that this melody is not randomly chosen.
“God, come near.”
“Mukama onyirize.”
For one broken daughter, burying her children and struggling to live through.
Indeed, for any broken daughter.
“Mukama onyirize.”
Let it be so.
The tears are long past. But the hollowness in her eyes is revealed as we talk.
She shows me hospital notices. We discuss the labored days of care.
I express my sorrow for her loss and we pray.
Her carefully written notes are for Psalm 86.
We read.
As we ponder the words and the Psalmist’s heart…
One message presses into my heart and pours out in explanation.
God is meant to be near.
He is not far off, unfeeling and cold.
He knows the dark and treacherous places that bind us. And he waits there. Longing to set us free.
He. Is. There.
As we weep. When we fail. When we break. In the midst of our ugly, ugliness.
When I prepared to depart she showed me the words of some Rutoro songs she wants to teach to our church. I asked her to sing a verse of the first song.
“Mukama onyirize…” repeated throughout the chorus.
She smiles awareness that this melody is not randomly chosen.
“God, come near.”
“Mukama onyirize.”
For one broken daughter, burying her children and struggling to live through.
Indeed, for any broken daughter.
“Mukama onyirize.”
Let it be so.
Thursday, January 13, 2011
Stand Firm
It was October. The day was warm. The equatorial sun was rising and gaining strength as mid day approached. Worship was in full swing for the town church.
The meandering arrivals had slowed and the chairs were filled. The worship songs had us on our feet. The opened tent flaps beat time to the rhythmic cadence of the praise chorus. One song after another. Swahili. English. Luganda. Runyankore. Lingala. Rutoro. Many of the words I cannot directly translate. But the phrases, the idea is clear. We are worshipping a God we need. A God who acts. A God who speaks.
On this particular Sunday, Isaiah called to me. Words from that long ago prophet that spoke right into the depths of my soul. To my heart. I read the words during the worship. I prayed the words during prayer.
And I heard...
“Stand firm, beloved.”
A gentle whisper to my soul as startling as a loud shout. Bold irony.
“Stand firm.”
As the Swahili choruses swirled around me, I returned to prayer.
“What do you mean exactly, Father, when you say ‘stand firm’? Which circumstance do I apply this too?”
“Pick one, beloved. Stand firm. I will make all things new.”
New.
“Therefore, my dear brothers, stand firm. Let nothing move you. Always give yourselves fully to the work of the Lord, because you know that your labor in the Lord is not in vain.” 1Cor 15:58
Many times, I stand--cowered. This is the "old" in my life. The well-rehearsed. The usual.
I obey. But hesitantly. Second-guessing.
But my Father's directive was "Firm". Steadfast. Unflinching.
And I know, from years of painful failing, that this directive is completely impossible for fearing little me.
Which is the point.
He is the point.
"Stand firm."
How?
Only in Him. With Him. By Him.
I intentionally practice the spreading wide my arms to receive all the His Spirit provides, even the bitter cup. And Stand.
“For you, O God, tested us; you refined us like silver. You brought us into prison and laid burdens on our backs. You let men ride over our heads, we went through fire and water but you brought us to a place of abundance.” Psalms66:10-12
Standing firm. (Because He stood first.)
Abundance is always just ahead.
Maranatha!
The meandering arrivals had slowed and the chairs were filled. The worship songs had us on our feet. The opened tent flaps beat time to the rhythmic cadence of the praise chorus. One song after another. Swahili. English. Luganda. Runyankore. Lingala. Rutoro. Many of the words I cannot directly translate. But the phrases, the idea is clear. We are worshipping a God we need. A God who acts. A God who speaks.
On this particular Sunday, Isaiah called to me. Words from that long ago prophet that spoke right into the depths of my soul. To my heart. I read the words during the worship. I prayed the words during prayer.
And I heard...
“Stand firm, beloved.”
A gentle whisper to my soul as startling as a loud shout. Bold irony.
“Stand firm.”
As the Swahili choruses swirled around me, I returned to prayer.
“What do you mean exactly, Father, when you say ‘stand firm’? Which circumstance do I apply this too?”
“Pick one, beloved. Stand firm. I will make all things new.”
New.
“Therefore, my dear brothers, stand firm. Let nothing move you. Always give yourselves fully to the work of the Lord, because you know that your labor in the Lord is not in vain.” 1Cor 15:58
Many times, I stand--cowered. This is the "old" in my life. The well-rehearsed. The usual.
I obey. But hesitantly. Second-guessing.
But my Father's directive was "Firm". Steadfast. Unflinching.
And I know, from years of painful failing, that this directive is completely impossible for fearing little me.
Which is the point.
He is the point.
"Stand firm."
How?
Only in Him. With Him. By Him.
I intentionally practice the spreading wide my arms to receive all the His Spirit provides, even the bitter cup. And Stand.
“For you, O God, tested us; you refined us like silver. You brought us into prison and laid burdens on our backs. You let men ride over our heads, we went through fire and water but you brought us to a place of abundance.” Psalms66:10-12
Standing firm. (Because He stood first.)
Abundance is always just ahead.
Maranatha!
Tuesday, January 04, 2011
Table Turning
We have a small white table that sits in the center of our kitchen.
It is oval shaped and from the day it began inhabiting our cooking space, it sat East-West.
Two days ago, I turned the table. It now sits North-South.
My family was astounded and the redirected oval has drawn much commentary.
“Um. Mom. What’s wrong in here?”
“Hey. Did you move something?”
“”Wow! There is more room.”
“I don’t like it.”
“It looks great!”
“It’s messed up my pacing pattern!”
“When I talk to you in the kitchen, I don’t know where to stand.”
(smile)
New.
A word pondered, celebrated and repeated at this time of year.
A word I am wholeheartedly embracing.
Two days ago, I turned a table in my kitchen.
And each morning, I turn some tables in my heart.
A change of perspective. A redefinition of space. Momentary discomfort and inconvenience. A fresh result.
I persistently seek. Intentionally choose.
One new day at a time.
With Him.
His “table turning” produces the impossible.
"A way in the desert."
"A stream in the wasteland."
Hope for the hopeless places.
Amen and amen.
It is oval shaped and from the day it began inhabiting our cooking space, it sat East-West.
Two days ago, I turned the table. It now sits North-South.
My family was astounded and the redirected oval has drawn much commentary.
“Um. Mom. What’s wrong in here?”
“Hey. Did you move something?”
“”Wow! There is more room.”
“I don’t like it.”
“It looks great!”
“It’s messed up my pacing pattern!”
“When I talk to you in the kitchen, I don’t know where to stand.”
(smile)
New.
A word pondered, celebrated and repeated at this time of year.
A word I am wholeheartedly embracing.
“Forget the former things, do not dwell on the past. See, I am doing a new thing! Now, it springs up, do you not perceive it? I am making a way in the desert and streams in the wasteland.” Isaiah 43:18-19
Two days ago, I turned a table in my kitchen.
And each morning, I turn some tables in my heart.
A change of perspective. A redefinition of space. Momentary discomfort and inconvenience. A fresh result.
I persistently seek. Intentionally choose.
One new day at a time.
With Him.
His “table turning” produces the impossible.
"A way in the desert."
"A stream in the wasteland."
Hope for the hopeless places.
"Because of the Lord’s great love, we are not consumed, for his compassions never fail. They are new every morning; great is your faithfulness.” Lamentations 3: 22-23
Amen and amen.
Tuesday, December 21, 2010
Things Were Not As I Expected
(No journal of Mary's thoughts exists. But I would so love to know all that passed through her mind and heart as she awaited Jesus' arrival. I have recorded my own guess at her experience here. The retelling of Christ's birth and early life can be found in Matthew 1-2 and Luke 1-2 )
Things were not exactly as I expected. From the moment that angel told me God’s plan and I accepted His will, shame and fear occupied my mind more often than not.
Immediately following the angels terrifying declaration, I felt the most euphoric blessing of God’s spirit fall on me. What a remarkable, unfathomable gift. I could not describe the experience to my pragmatic family or the traditional community around me. I silently experienced the promise unsure of my sanity every now and again.
I expected God to pave my way. Surely, if an angel had appeared to me, if I was chosen, then wouldn’t God tell everyone else too? And I hoped he would start with my Mother.
He didn’t.
He did not tell Abba or the Rabbis in our village. They knew the prophecies of our Messiah. But the reality of Him growing in Abba’s young daughter’s womb was more scandalous than could be tolerated in such a holy gift.
The angel did tell my betrothed. Praise Yahweh.
Joseph could have had me killed and many other men would have done just that to save their own name and honor. When Joseph took me into his home I was amazed.
He had a dream and the Lord told him too. And he believed the Lord.
I am so thankful for his obedience. Being taken into his home has not stopped the wagging tongues. But the pierce of their words was softened by the protectiveness of our marriage.
When I learned of our trip to Bethlehem I was at once relieved and afraid. I was eager to escape the doubting glances of my family…
But I was afraid that our baby would arrive in that far away village.
The trip was terribly long and miserable, only to reach Bethlehem and have no place to stay. We ended up sleeping in a stable. The smell was putrid to my sensitive nose and the ground was very cold and hard underneath my heavy body.
When my pains began I became terribly afraid. I was going to deliver this child in this distant place with no mother or sister or aunt to hold my hand, coach my process and mop my brow. Joseph’s eyes darted side to side to avoid mine. He was very uncomfortable in the moment but could obviously think of no where else to be. Was he remembering your words to him in the dream? Wondering if he had heard correctly? Sorry he was here now?
The pain was excruciating.
God, was that really you all those months ago?!? Was Elizabeth speaking from you when she prophesied this child’s future? Did Joseph see an angel too?
Because if you are so very involved, why in the world does it hurt this much?!?
I thought I had died. My body was ripping apart.
Beyond my control, I felt my body pushing. Every single portion of my body hurt. One push. Two pushes. Exhaustion. More work.
And then when I thought I could take no more--- A cry. A wail. And the most amazing sweet relief of my life. Praise Jehovah. He was there.
Time seemed to stop. In that stable. On that cold floor. The only sounds were my heaving breaths, Joseph’s scurrying to care for us and Yeshua’s cries.
Joseph’s eyes were awash with amazement. He was drawn into those precious eyes and the miracle of the tiny hands and feet. I could not stop looking at each part of our miracle.
Lord have mercy, I was in love.
A son!!! Yeshua. Jesus.
He was crying. And I was crying. And Joseph was crying.
At once comprehending my complete lack of comprehension! Unfathomable greatness.
All of heaven seemed to sing. And yet only silence sounded around us. The three of us. Alone.
I held our boy drinking in his scent and hanging on each tiny breath. He slept and I stared. I was unable to look anywhere else. We were all exhausted. All amazed.
Our tiny trio was interrupted by the sound of scurrying men. Joseph went to see who was calling on this stable so late in the night. Maybe weary travelers, come to sleep on this ground with us.
Joseph led the scraggly crew into our scene. The men were shepherds. And they smelled of work and pasture and sheep. Their eyes held amazement and wonder and they knelt before Jesus and worshiped him. Angels had told them to come.
Of course.
Angels continued to proclaim Him.
But who would have ever imagined to whom they would proclaim.
A poor carpenter, shamed by the expanding middle of his betrothed. A barren elderly couple. Shepherds.
Me.
Who am I?!?!
Will I ever completely understand?
All I know is that I am in love. With my Yeshua. He has my heart and, in ponderings and piercings, I will never have it back.
Things were not exactly as I expected. From the moment that angel told me God’s plan and I accepted His will, shame and fear occupied my mind more often than not.
Immediately following the angels terrifying declaration, I felt the most euphoric blessing of God’s spirit fall on me. What a remarkable, unfathomable gift. I could not describe the experience to my pragmatic family or the traditional community around me. I silently experienced the promise unsure of my sanity every now and again.
I expected God to pave my way. Surely, if an angel had appeared to me, if I was chosen, then wouldn’t God tell everyone else too? And I hoped he would start with my Mother.
He didn’t.
He did not tell Abba or the Rabbis in our village. They knew the prophecies of our Messiah. But the reality of Him growing in Abba’s young daughter’s womb was more scandalous than could be tolerated in such a holy gift.
The angel did tell my betrothed. Praise Yahweh.
Joseph could have had me killed and many other men would have done just that to save their own name and honor. When Joseph took me into his home I was amazed.
He had a dream and the Lord told him too. And he believed the Lord.
I am so thankful for his obedience. Being taken into his home has not stopped the wagging tongues. But the pierce of their words was softened by the protectiveness of our marriage.
When I learned of our trip to Bethlehem I was at once relieved and afraid. I was eager to escape the doubting glances of my family…
But I was afraid that our baby would arrive in that far away village.
The trip was terribly long and miserable, only to reach Bethlehem and have no place to stay. We ended up sleeping in a stable. The smell was putrid to my sensitive nose and the ground was very cold and hard underneath my heavy body.
When my pains began I became terribly afraid. I was going to deliver this child in this distant place with no mother or sister or aunt to hold my hand, coach my process and mop my brow. Joseph’s eyes darted side to side to avoid mine. He was very uncomfortable in the moment but could obviously think of no where else to be. Was he remembering your words to him in the dream? Wondering if he had heard correctly? Sorry he was here now?
The pain was excruciating.
God, was that really you all those months ago?!? Was Elizabeth speaking from you when she prophesied this child’s future? Did Joseph see an angel too?
Because if you are so very involved, why in the world does it hurt this much?!?
I thought I had died. My body was ripping apart.
Beyond my control, I felt my body pushing. Every single portion of my body hurt. One push. Two pushes. Exhaustion. More work.
And then when I thought I could take no more--- A cry. A wail. And the most amazing sweet relief of my life. Praise Jehovah. He was there.
Time seemed to stop. In that stable. On that cold floor. The only sounds were my heaving breaths, Joseph’s scurrying to care for us and Yeshua’s cries.
Joseph’s eyes were awash with amazement. He was drawn into those precious eyes and the miracle of the tiny hands and feet. I could not stop looking at each part of our miracle.
Lord have mercy, I was in love.
A son!!! Yeshua. Jesus.
He was crying. And I was crying. And Joseph was crying.
At once comprehending my complete lack of comprehension! Unfathomable greatness.
All of heaven seemed to sing. And yet only silence sounded around us. The three of us. Alone.
I held our boy drinking in his scent and hanging on each tiny breath. He slept and I stared. I was unable to look anywhere else. We were all exhausted. All amazed.
Our tiny trio was interrupted by the sound of scurrying men. Joseph went to see who was calling on this stable so late in the night. Maybe weary travelers, come to sleep on this ground with us.
Joseph led the scraggly crew into our scene. The men were shepherds. And they smelled of work and pasture and sheep. Their eyes held amazement and wonder and they knelt before Jesus and worshiped him. Angels had told them to come.
Of course.
Angels continued to proclaim Him.
But who would have ever imagined to whom they would proclaim.
A poor carpenter, shamed by the expanding middle of his betrothed. A barren elderly couple. Shepherds.
Me.
Who am I?!?!
Will I ever completely understand?
All I know is that I am in love. With my Yeshua. He has my heart and, in ponderings and piercings, I will never have it back.
Saturday, December 18, 2010
Light and Momentary
Four long hours. I had to try. Something in my idealistic nature still alive after years of brusque reality.
Our bill is wrong. It has been wrong for too many years to divulge. We have written letters, requested technicians and endured mocking disdain from the officials who refuse to correct their mistakes.
Most simplistically, we have been robbed.
And we may not be able to prove it.
So. Yesterday. After much prayer and confidence gathering, I slipped into the office to plead our case. Again.
Four hours left us with no resolution. Only deeper frustration. And red puffy eyes. My tears were cleansing and healthy and private. But proved nothing.
This morning, a daily reading from Jesus Calling by Sarah Young:
"When you are plagued by a persistent problem---one that goes on and on---view it as a rich opportunity. An ongoing problem is like a tutor that is always by your side. The learning possibilities are limited only by your willingness to be teachable. In faith, thank me for your problem. Ask me to open your eyes and your heart to all that I am accomplishing through this difficulty. Once you have become grateful for a problem, it loses it's power to drag you down."
An idea I've heard before.
"Consider it pure joy my brothers, whenever you face trials of many kinds because you know that the testing of your faith develops perseverance." James 1: 2-3
And again:
"For our light and momentary troubles are achieving for us an eternal glory that far outweighs them all. So we fix our eyes not on what is seen, but on what is unseen. For what is seen is temporary, but what is unseen is eternal." 2 Cor 4:17-18
Heading into this day, thanking God for the robbery and all He can teach me through it. Asking for courage to maintain that posture even when the going feels tough.
Maranatha!
Our bill is wrong. It has been wrong for too many years to divulge. We have written letters, requested technicians and endured mocking disdain from the officials who refuse to correct their mistakes.
Most simplistically, we have been robbed.
And we may not be able to prove it.
So. Yesterday. After much prayer and confidence gathering, I slipped into the office to plead our case. Again.
Four hours left us with no resolution. Only deeper frustration. And red puffy eyes. My tears were cleansing and healthy and private. But proved nothing.
This morning, a daily reading from Jesus Calling by Sarah Young:
"When you are plagued by a persistent problem---one that goes on and on---view it as a rich opportunity. An ongoing problem is like a tutor that is always by your side. The learning possibilities are limited only by your willingness to be teachable. In faith, thank me for your problem. Ask me to open your eyes and your heart to all that I am accomplishing through this difficulty. Once you have become grateful for a problem, it loses it's power to drag you down."
An idea I've heard before.
"Consider it pure joy my brothers, whenever you face trials of many kinds because you know that the testing of your faith develops perseverance." James 1: 2-3
And again:
"For our light and momentary troubles are achieving for us an eternal glory that far outweighs them all. So we fix our eyes not on what is seen, but on what is unseen. For what is seen is temporary, but what is unseen is eternal." 2 Cor 4:17-18
Heading into this day, thanking God for the robbery and all He can teach me through it. Asking for courage to maintain that posture even when the going feels tough.
Maranatha!
Friday, December 17, 2010
Counting FIsh
(excerpts from a letter of thanks sent at the end of our furlough)
“I’m going out to fish,” Simon Peter told them, and they said, “We’ll go with you.”
So they went out and got into the boat, but that night they caught nothing.
Early in the morning, Jesus stood on the shore, but the disciples did not realize that it was Jesus.
He called out to them, “Friends, haven’t you any fish?”
“No,” they answered.
He said, “Throw your net on the right side of the boat and you will find some.”
When they did, they were unable to haul the net in because of the large number of fish.
Then the disciple whom Jesus loved said to Peter, “It is the Lord!” As soon as Simon Peter heard him say, “It is the Lord!” he wrapped his outer garment around him…and jumped into the water. The other disciples followed in the boat, towing the net full of fish….
Simon Peter climbed aboard and dragged the net ashore. It was full of large fish, 153, but even with so many the net was not torn. Jesus said to them, “Come and have breakfast.” None of the disciples dared ask him, “Who are you?” They knew it was the Lord.”
John 21:1-12
“Well, there’s the fact He asks us to trust him when it feels like we’ve been in a long night and caught nothing and will we hear His voice, trust him, do what He says when He asks the unconventional of us: “Throw your net on the right side of the boat”…. And there’s this: … the wild love waiting for us at the end of dark, empty nights of the soul — the kind of love that has breakfast waiting for us on the beach, the fish and bread all ready for us… but really… and this is what I keep coming back to…. “Someone had counted the fish!” Ann Voskamp from www.aholyexperience.com
Dear Friends,
Another year is drawing to a close, as is another furlough for the Cash family. We will gather around a Thanksgiving table with loved ones this week and pause to remember and give thanks for all the “fish in our nets”. God’s kingdom growth in Uganda feels like this story of the disciples fishing. Some moments feel as if we have caught nothing. Other times, we can barely tow in the nets.
We reflect on a furlough that has offered us some precious breakfast on the shore with Jesus. Times of nurture and restoration from the Lord.
“You pull in your life and you see that though you felt ripped open —- the net actually didn’t tear. That there’s much in your net. And you actually count them. You make sure you count the fish. So you don’t have to ask because you know. You know it is the Lord.”
Ann Voskamp
We humbly reflect:
Healthy children, 17 year marriage, safe travels, memories with cousins, hugs from Grandparents, laughter with family, trips to Dallas, waterfalls and mountains, the Oregon Coast, fabulous food, new clothes, a living and active Word, a message to proclaim, a growing church family, forgiveness, people to serve among, redemption.
And you. Supporters and friends who pray, and give, and partner with us to share Christ with the Ugandan people.
We are thankful for you and your faithful support and prayers for God’s work in Ft Portal, Uganda.
Thank you for loving our family and serving our God together with us.
When we “count our fish” we count you!
God’s blessings and peace on you and yours.
In Christ Alone,
the Cashes
“I’m going out to fish,” Simon Peter told them, and they said, “We’ll go with you.”
So they went out and got into the boat, but that night they caught nothing.
Early in the morning, Jesus stood on the shore, but the disciples did not realize that it was Jesus.
He called out to them, “Friends, haven’t you any fish?”
“No,” they answered.
He said, “Throw your net on the right side of the boat and you will find some.”
When they did, they were unable to haul the net in because of the large number of fish.
Then the disciple whom Jesus loved said to Peter, “It is the Lord!” As soon as Simon Peter heard him say, “It is the Lord!” he wrapped his outer garment around him…and jumped into the water. The other disciples followed in the boat, towing the net full of fish….
Simon Peter climbed aboard and dragged the net ashore. It was full of large fish, 153, but even with so many the net was not torn. Jesus said to them, “Come and have breakfast.” None of the disciples dared ask him, “Who are you?” They knew it was the Lord.”
John 21:1-12
“Well, there’s the fact He asks us to trust him when it feels like we’ve been in a long night and caught nothing and will we hear His voice, trust him, do what He says when He asks the unconventional of us: “Throw your net on the right side of the boat”…. And there’s this: … the wild love waiting for us at the end of dark, empty nights of the soul — the kind of love that has breakfast waiting for us on the beach, the fish and bread all ready for us… but really… and this is what I keep coming back to…. “Someone had counted the fish!” Ann Voskamp from www.aholyexperience.com
Dear Friends,
Another year is drawing to a close, as is another furlough for the Cash family. We will gather around a Thanksgiving table with loved ones this week and pause to remember and give thanks for all the “fish in our nets”. God’s kingdom growth in Uganda feels like this story of the disciples fishing. Some moments feel as if we have caught nothing. Other times, we can barely tow in the nets.
We reflect on a furlough that has offered us some precious breakfast on the shore with Jesus. Times of nurture and restoration from the Lord.
“You pull in your life and you see that though you felt ripped open —- the net actually didn’t tear. That there’s much in your net. And you actually count them. You make sure you count the fish. So you don’t have to ask because you know. You know it is the Lord.”
Ann Voskamp
We humbly reflect:
Healthy children, 17 year marriage, safe travels, memories with cousins, hugs from Grandparents, laughter with family, trips to Dallas, waterfalls and mountains, the Oregon Coast, fabulous food, new clothes, a living and active Word, a message to proclaim, a growing church family, forgiveness, people to serve among, redemption.
And you. Supporters and friends who pray, and give, and partner with us to share Christ with the Ugandan people.
We are thankful for you and your faithful support and prayers for God’s work in Ft Portal, Uganda.
Thank you for loving our family and serving our God together with us.
When we “count our fish” we count you!
God’s blessings and peace on you and yours.
In Christ Alone,
the Cashes
Thursday, December 16, 2010
Returning
Our children are giddy. Ecstatic.
“I’m so happy to be back, Mom!”
The congested streets and red-dirt-covered scenes around us flood us with familiarity. Knowing the schedules and the shops and how to make a plan. Jostling crowds at check outs. No queues, only clumps. My elbows popping out to stake our claim in the semblance of a line.
Greetings from the ARA staff we have known since our beginnings here. Richard, Mary, George, Robert --all friends for nearly 15 years.
Early rising, long breakfasts, leisurely coffee and strong equatorial sun that warms me to my soul.
Roosters crowing, children crying, horns honking, stereos blaring.
Home?
Tomorrow we travel the last stretch of road taking us back to our house. We can’t wait to hug our dogs and unpack our bags and put up our Christmas tree. We can’t wait to back cookies and make coffee and settle back into our family schedule.
Our life of the last 17 years has had many departures. And I survive each one by thinking of the return at the end of the journey. Return to the States. Return to our Africa home.
I prefer the end of the trip to the actual journey. I’m trying to learn how to experience the journey better. But the truth is, I like the completion of just about anything above the process itself. Lord have mercy. I still have so much to learn.
The “processes” and journey of the last several years have rendered me silent in this corner of cyber space. I return today not because anything has been completed. I return to practice, in the scratching of words, joy in the journey. Celebration of the process. Where is God filling and saving and healing in this broken life?
With dogs barking, and unpacked bags beckoning, I return.
It is good to be back.
“I’m so happy to be back, Mom!”
The congested streets and red-dirt-covered scenes around us flood us with familiarity. Knowing the schedules and the shops and how to make a plan. Jostling crowds at check outs. No queues, only clumps. My elbows popping out to stake our claim in the semblance of a line.
Greetings from the ARA staff we have known since our beginnings here. Richard, Mary, George, Robert --all friends for nearly 15 years.
Early rising, long breakfasts, leisurely coffee and strong equatorial sun that warms me to my soul.
Roosters crowing, children crying, horns honking, stereos blaring.
Home?
Tomorrow we travel the last stretch of road taking us back to our house. We can’t wait to hug our dogs and unpack our bags and put up our Christmas tree. We can’t wait to back cookies and make coffee and settle back into our family schedule.
Our life of the last 17 years has had many departures. And I survive each one by thinking of the return at the end of the journey. Return to the States. Return to our Africa home.
I prefer the end of the trip to the actual journey. I’m trying to learn how to experience the journey better. But the truth is, I like the completion of just about anything above the process itself. Lord have mercy. I still have so much to learn.
The “processes” and journey of the last several years have rendered me silent in this corner of cyber space. I return today not because anything has been completed. I return to practice, in the scratching of words, joy in the journey. Celebration of the process. Where is God filling and saving and healing in this broken life?
With dogs barking, and unpacked bags beckoning, I return.
It is good to be back.
Saturday, December 05, 2009
Heartache
I stood by the grave with Agnes and some friends. Moments earlier her tears had poured as I stepped out of the car. She couldn’t say much. Just two words repeatedly.
“So sad. So sad.”
She shook the hands of each person exiting the vehicles. We were all silent.
After a brief moment of no one knowing exactly where to look or what to say, Agnes led us to the freshly filled grave. There were several flower arrangements on the moist earth. Agnes stood closest to the burial site. She was stoic. We all gathered around and a prayer was spoken. Young Anna Marie, stood back from the rest. She didn’t take her eyes off her mom. Her normally happy eyes filled with deep concern each time Agnes’ tears overflowed.
The next hour ushered us into a grandmother’s sitting room and into Scripture.
We weren’t looking for answers.
I do not know of any answers in the face of such sorrow.
I sought to offer Ivan’s family a response.
Jesus stood by fresh graves too. He saw burials and heard the wails of the grieving.
We are told that Jesus was deeply moved or troubled in spirit when he witnessed the grieving. (Luke 7:11-17; John 11:1-44)
According to the Lazarus story, he even wept.
Yet, in both of those scripture references, He was going to conquer the death. He was going to raise the person up. Amazement and joy were coming, and He was burdened by the death anyway.
We offered to Agnes that Jesus sees her tears, hears her wails and aches for her loneliness.
Even though He knows that good is coming. And Life awaits those who believe.
Our current pain is still His pain.
I long for people to meet this Jesus. This One who knows us so well.
The One who has cried real tears and felt real heartbreak. The One who had to wipe his snotty nose.
Our King.
I believe young Ivan walks with Him now.
The holidays are a painful time to grieve. But inevitably, grief comes. Or returns. The lights, the decorations, the songs and the food can ignite memories of those who have passed on.
Dear Ones, who carry such a weight, Jesus knows. He completely understands the pain and stench of death. He went, even there.
Death could not hold Him. Nor will it hold us, if we believe in Him.
I am certain of that life on the other side.
But my tears sure flow freely right now.
Maranatha.
Ivan passed from this life on the morning of November 17, 2009. He was hit by a car on the road near his home. He was not yet 10 years old. He is survived by his mother Akiiki Agnes, sister Anna Marie, grandmother, uncles, aunts, cousins and a church family who loved him so much.
“So sad. So sad.”
She shook the hands of each person exiting the vehicles. We were all silent.
After a brief moment of no one knowing exactly where to look or what to say, Agnes led us to the freshly filled grave. There were several flower arrangements on the moist earth. Agnes stood closest to the burial site. She was stoic. We all gathered around and a prayer was spoken. Young Anna Marie, stood back from the rest. She didn’t take her eyes off her mom. Her normally happy eyes filled with deep concern each time Agnes’ tears overflowed.
The next hour ushered us into a grandmother’s sitting room and into Scripture.
We weren’t looking for answers.
I do not know of any answers in the face of such sorrow.
I sought to offer Ivan’s family a response.
Jesus stood by fresh graves too. He saw burials and heard the wails of the grieving.
We are told that Jesus was deeply moved or troubled in spirit when he witnessed the grieving. (Luke 7:11-17; John 11:1-44)
According to the Lazarus story, he even wept.
Yet, in both of those scripture references, He was going to conquer the death. He was going to raise the person up. Amazement and joy were coming, and He was burdened by the death anyway.
We offered to Agnes that Jesus sees her tears, hears her wails and aches for her loneliness.
Even though He knows that good is coming. And Life awaits those who believe.
Our current pain is still His pain.
I long for people to meet this Jesus. This One who knows us so well.
The One who has cried real tears and felt real heartbreak. The One who had to wipe his snotty nose.
Our King.
I believe young Ivan walks with Him now.
The holidays are a painful time to grieve. But inevitably, grief comes. Or returns. The lights, the decorations, the songs and the food can ignite memories of those who have passed on.
Dear Ones, who carry such a weight, Jesus knows. He completely understands the pain and stench of death. He went, even there.
Death could not hold Him. Nor will it hold us, if we believe in Him.
I am certain of that life on the other side.
But my tears sure flow freely right now.
Maranatha.
Ivan passed from this life on the morning of November 17, 2009. He was hit by a car on the road near his home. He was not yet 10 years old. He is survived by his mother Akiiki Agnes, sister Anna Marie, grandmother, uncles, aunts, cousins and a church family who loved him so much.
“…weeping may remain for a night, but rejoicing comes in the morning.” Psalm 30:5
Monday, September 14, 2009
Thankful Mondays
-pretty toes
-girl's day out
-good friends
-good news
-hot coffee
-a great series of books
-oreo ice cream
-new football games to watch
-hearing my niece's sweet, sweet voice for the first time
(Join the crowd! )
Tuesday, September 08, 2009
"Cutter, Cutter, Peanut Butter"
The school term begins this week in Uganda. Which means that school fees are being paid en masse at banks across this land.
I have been paying fees for awhile now. Start early. That’s the secret.
Unfortunately, “early” is not an easy thing for me.
So, it was with firm resolve that I walked up the stairs of the bank last Thursday at 11AM.
Yep. Almost midday. The line was all the way to the door.
Resigned to my fate, I joined the queue.
A queue full of two faces: The Stare and The Gawk.
I have mastered The Stare. The trick is finding nothing to look at. No person. No one thing for a very long time. Just an indifferent sort of gaze.
Most of my fellow queue-ers were already well into The Stare mode when I entered. I broke their reverie with my arrival.
The long line, to a person, broke wholeheartedly into The Gawk. This is enabled by my very white face.
I pretend not to notice. But The Gawk actually seems to burn holes in my back.
I ignore The Gawk and with a deep breath I enable my own Stare hoping that the effort will somehow, magically make me blend in.
Everyone’s attention is drawn away from my pale skin by the first cutter.
She is smooth. She walks past all of us with her heavy bag and stack of papers. She, in mastery of The Confident Gait, takes her place well in front of me.
I am silently annoyed. But I say nothing. Everyone's attention was just drawn AWAY from me. I did not want to call that attention back. Several of my Queue-mates raise their eyebrows and snicker. It seems they are almost thankful for the break in the endless staring. Her misdeed is a sort of distraction. (telling) We all quickly settle back into The Stare.
Two more self serving individuals place themselves conveniently at the front part of the line.
I decide, that the next time I will speak up.
And in walks E. The sweetest older woman you’ve ever met. I have only had two opportunities to speak with her through the years, but she is deeply respected and valued in this community.
I felt my Stare morph into Gawk as sweet little E greeted her way to the front of the line.
I imagined myself calling sweet E out. And I shuddered a little bit.
With a sigh, I kept my mouth closed.
The woman with the crippled leg grabbed my attention next. She limped her way to the front of the line and no one complained. I momentarily felt proud of the compassion and patience we were all exhibiting on her behalf. Of course SHE can go to the front of the line.
She approached the teller. Finished her transaction and then left.
A few minutes later she was back. With another transaction.
And again.
And again.
Seems she had a bit of a hustle going on. ☺
Meanwhile, I barely moved for another half hour.
All of a sudden (I must have dozed), I was near the front of the line. There were two in front of me.
Only.
And then.
The Nun.
She jumped in front of the first gentlemen. He was caught off guard, lost The Stare and looked annoyed for a quarter of a second. Then was jolted back into reality by the fact that she was A Nun.
She sidled up to the teller and pulled out a huge stack of papers.
Gracious me.
I think she was paying school fees for the entire tribe.
More unfortunate than her stack of papers, was the teller she chose. In over an hour of waiting time, I had carefully observed the tellers. There were four at work. One was for business customers only. Three were for the rest of us. Two of the tellers I had begun to think of as MH1 and MH2 (“MH” stands for molasses hands). The teller at the first window would be our savior. He worked quickly, relatively speaking. And I loved him.
UNTIL…and in the third world there is ALWAYS something else…
Mr Bank Employee in is stylin’ tweed jacket comes to complain to the tellers about the line. After talking their ears off for several minutes, which only served to slow them down, (have mercy!) he came out to address the crowd.
He said something like, “This line is too long!”
Thank you. I will now refer to you as Einstein.
So Einstein begins to peruse everyone’s deposit slips. In some seemingly arbitrary way, he pulls people from the line BEHIND me and puts them in a direct line for teller #1. The savior. Which, in effect, made him lost to me forever.
Now, thanks to the brilliant categorizing of Einstein, I am stuck behind Pushy Nun and my entire day rests in Hands Made of Molasses.
At this point, I began to huff. I couldn’t help it.
It did no good.
Twenty five minutes later, I dragged my weary bones to the teller window and handed her my papers.
She languidly went through the motions. I held my breath lest she decide it was tea time and leave me standing there. But, with a million slamming slaps of her official stamps, she finally completed my transaction.
Painful. Long. And able to reduce my maturity level to that of a 1st grader.
“Cutter, cutter, peanut butter!”
Next time I’m going with that!
I have been paying fees for awhile now. Start early. That’s the secret.
Unfortunately, “early” is not an easy thing for me.
So, it was with firm resolve that I walked up the stairs of the bank last Thursday at 11AM.
Yep. Almost midday. The line was all the way to the door.
Resigned to my fate, I joined the queue.
A queue full of two faces: The Stare and The Gawk.
I have mastered The Stare. The trick is finding nothing to look at. No person. No one thing for a very long time. Just an indifferent sort of gaze.
Most of my fellow queue-ers were already well into The Stare mode when I entered. I broke their reverie with my arrival.
The long line, to a person, broke wholeheartedly into The Gawk. This is enabled by my very white face.
I pretend not to notice. But The Gawk actually seems to burn holes in my back.
I ignore The Gawk and with a deep breath I enable my own Stare hoping that the effort will somehow, magically make me blend in.
Everyone’s attention is drawn away from my pale skin by the first cutter.
She is smooth. She walks past all of us with her heavy bag and stack of papers. She, in mastery of The Confident Gait, takes her place well in front of me.
I am silently annoyed. But I say nothing. Everyone's attention was just drawn AWAY from me. I did not want to call that attention back. Several of my Queue-mates raise their eyebrows and snicker. It seems they are almost thankful for the break in the endless staring. Her misdeed is a sort of distraction. (telling) We all quickly settle back into The Stare.
Two more self serving individuals place themselves conveniently at the front part of the line.
I decide, that the next time I will speak up.
And in walks E. The sweetest older woman you’ve ever met. I have only had two opportunities to speak with her through the years, but she is deeply respected and valued in this community.
I felt my Stare morph into Gawk as sweet little E greeted her way to the front of the line.
I imagined myself calling sweet E out. And I shuddered a little bit.
With a sigh, I kept my mouth closed.
The woman with the crippled leg grabbed my attention next. She limped her way to the front of the line and no one complained. I momentarily felt proud of the compassion and patience we were all exhibiting on her behalf. Of course SHE can go to the front of the line.
She approached the teller. Finished her transaction and then left.
A few minutes later she was back. With another transaction.
And again.
And again.
Seems she had a bit of a hustle going on. ☺
Meanwhile, I barely moved for another half hour.
All of a sudden (I must have dozed), I was near the front of the line. There were two in front of me.
Only.
And then.
The Nun.
She jumped in front of the first gentlemen. He was caught off guard, lost The Stare and looked annoyed for a quarter of a second. Then was jolted back into reality by the fact that she was A Nun.
She sidled up to the teller and pulled out a huge stack of papers.
Gracious me.
I think she was paying school fees for the entire tribe.
More unfortunate than her stack of papers, was the teller she chose. In over an hour of waiting time, I had carefully observed the tellers. There were four at work. One was for business customers only. Three were for the rest of us. Two of the tellers I had begun to think of as MH1 and MH2 (“MH” stands for molasses hands). The teller at the first window would be our savior. He worked quickly, relatively speaking. And I loved him.
UNTIL…and in the third world there is ALWAYS something else…
Mr Bank Employee in is stylin’ tweed jacket comes to complain to the tellers about the line. After talking their ears off for several minutes, which only served to slow them down, (have mercy!) he came out to address the crowd.
He said something like, “This line is too long!”
Thank you. I will now refer to you as Einstein.
So Einstein begins to peruse everyone’s deposit slips. In some seemingly arbitrary way, he pulls people from the line BEHIND me and puts them in a direct line for teller #1. The savior. Which, in effect, made him lost to me forever.
Now, thanks to the brilliant categorizing of Einstein, I am stuck behind Pushy Nun and my entire day rests in Hands Made of Molasses.
At this point, I began to huff. I couldn’t help it.
It did no good.
Twenty five minutes later, I dragged my weary bones to the teller window and handed her my papers.
She languidly went through the motions. I held my breath lest she decide it was tea time and leave me standing there. But, with a million slamming slaps of her official stamps, she finally completed my transaction.
Painful. Long. And able to reduce my maturity level to that of a 1st grader.
“Cutter, cutter, peanut butter!”
Next time I’m going with that!
Wednesday, September 02, 2009
Thankful for...
---a moment alone on the porch with a cup of tea and a cool breeze
---fajitas!
---American football
---long conversations with my husband
---chocolate frozen desserts
---my daughter cooking breakfast
---older siblings leading younger siblings through reading and math
---completed tasks
---new school books
---speaking Rutoro to children
Monday, August 17, 2009
Mojo Magic
I went to a wonderful high school some years ago.
20 years ago.
I know! I can’t believe that either. ☺
But nevertheless, the time, it passes.
As I perused FB photos from the reunion this last week, I remembered many things about high school. The memories are random and in no particular order. Which is pretty much life for me these days.
So. High school.
1. My graduating class had @650 graduates. I can’t remember the exact number.
2. At graduation I did not know either of the people sitting next to me. (I had to count down the row 10 people before I came to someone I knew.)
3. My sophomore year of school I never saw my best friend at school, ever. We had different lunches and class schedules and so had to meet up on the weekends.
4. I was in band and choir.
5. I loved band. They were like family during those years and some of my best memories are with those funny, funny folks.
6. Our band was really great!
7. It took 6 buses to transport our band and equipment to games and contests.
8. MA was always my seatmate on band bus trips. Unless she had a boyfriend.
9. I had a boyfriend every year of high school but rarely had a date on the weekends. Unless it was a holiday. (it’s like a riddle)
10. I did not go to prom and I’m still okay with that.
11. My dad heard about more of my friend’s parties than I did. (clarification: he was never invited. He just always heard about them.)
12. I was only offered drugs once. (I stared at the young man in shocked silence and he immediately shoved the goods back in his pocket and sulked in the back of our chemistry class. I never saw him in class again.)
13. I cannot stand KFC because of a very ill-fated meal on a cross country band trip at a Moose Lodge in Arizona. Yucky.
14. I loved football season.
15. I was a Pepette my senior year.
16. My track runner was Shane, my basketball player was ?, and my football player was Tag. (why can’t I remember my basketball player? Shawn Almond? Did he play basketball?)
17. I first got to know Tag in 8th grade. In junior high, the football players joined home economics class for laughs and Tag was placed in my cooking group. I cooked. He made jokes. We got an A.
18. An author followed our football team around all year and told our student body at a pep rally that he was going to write a book about Permian like the story “Hoosiers”.
19. He did write a book.
20. It is nothing like Hoosiers.
21. The book made me sad. The movie was weird to watch. The TV show is one of my favorites. Go figure.
22. The first time I took a computer class was my junior year.
23. We learned MSDOS code. We thought we were so advanced.
24. We often wrote words and messages on each other’s car windows with white shoe polish.
25. I remember the first time I heard the brass section play in a rehearsal at the band hall. It was impressive.
26. Mr Nail called me a slug once over his bullhorn.
27. I remember all the girls curling our bangs in the dressing room after early morning marching. And the smell of hairspray that permeated the air. Bangs were so important then. (Okay. Bangs are still important. We just don’t make them so big.)
28. The invention of the butane curling iron revolutionized life for the band girls.
29. The last time I ever marched, it was rainy and cold.
30. My dad always played Santa Claus at our half time show at Christmas.
31. Hawai 50!
32. I can still play part of the Mojo fight song on the flute. (powerful ☺)
33. Arlington High vs Permian was the best high school football game I have ever seen. Maybe that was ever played?
34. The Arlington High band got aggressive during our pre-game march around the track thing. The band. They marched into our band and hit us. Meanies. I thought we were really going to see Mr Nail’s head explode.
35. My friends gave me a surprise party for my 18th birthday.
36. I made a bet with my BFF that whoever married first had to buy dinner for the other at a very expensive restaurant when we turned 40. We got married within a month of each other. (after college, not in high school) I owe her dinner. Soon.
37. I loved sitting next to Karina in band. We were funny. (even if no one else appreciated the humor)
38. There was this one intersection of halls at Permian where you could barely move through between classes. You just sort of smooshed into an obscure sort of “lane” and inched your way in the direction of your next class. It was noisy and crowded and always made me nervous.
39. I think of that every time I drive in Kampala traffic.
40. I made first chair in the PHS band flute section exactly one time.
41. I never sat first chair because, well, Denise and Stephanie…but I told my dear friend Mary and she celebrated with me.
42. TACO VILLA!!!!
43. Before I got my car I rode to school in a white mustang with Jill. We were always running a wee bit late, so Jill had to drive fast. It broke her heart to do so because she was such a safe and conscientious driver. ☺
44. Open-campus meant we got to eat out for lunch. I thought this was so cool but it was also the most stressful time of day. Drive somewhere. Eat. Drive back. In 25 minutes.
45. Eating at Wendy’s always makes me think of Danny, Mary and a brown Honda.
46. I was president of the National Honor Society.
47. I was chaplain of band and choir.
48. I led a lot of prayers.
49. I had a Physics teacher named Mr. Hare who was completely bald. And he was a contortionist.
50. I started and ended every school day in the band hall. It was home away from home.
Our class became somewhat famous. We are the class from Friday Night Lights.
It was exciting to think of someone writing a book about our school. Until it was published. And then most folks were underwhelmed or irate. It is difficult to be scrutinized publicly.
I never played football. (shocker) But I was an active part of many other aspects of Permian High School. So, for me, the very public analysis of our football program, school and town never felt complete. Did Mr. Bissinger really do all his homework?
He never interviewed me.
Smile
Go MOJO! Keep supporting your kids.
I loved being a part of your tradition and memories!
20 years ago.
I know! I can’t believe that either. ☺
But nevertheless, the time, it passes.
As I perused FB photos from the reunion this last week, I remembered many things about high school. The memories are random and in no particular order. Which is pretty much life for me these days.
So. High school.
1. My graduating class had @650 graduates. I can’t remember the exact number.
2. At graduation I did not know either of the people sitting next to me. (I had to count down the row 10 people before I came to someone I knew.)
3. My sophomore year of school I never saw my best friend at school, ever. We had different lunches and class schedules and so had to meet up on the weekends.
4. I was in band and choir.
5. I loved band. They were like family during those years and some of my best memories are with those funny, funny folks.
6. Our band was really great!
7. It took 6 buses to transport our band and equipment to games and contests.
8. MA was always my seatmate on band bus trips. Unless she had a boyfriend.
9. I had a boyfriend every year of high school but rarely had a date on the weekends. Unless it was a holiday. (it’s like a riddle)
10. I did not go to prom and I’m still okay with that.
11. My dad heard about more of my friend’s parties than I did. (clarification: he was never invited. He just always heard about them.)
12. I was only offered drugs once. (I stared at the young man in shocked silence and he immediately shoved the goods back in his pocket and sulked in the back of our chemistry class. I never saw him in class again.)
13. I cannot stand KFC because of a very ill-fated meal on a cross country band trip at a Moose Lodge in Arizona. Yucky.
14. I loved football season.
15. I was a Pepette my senior year.
16. My track runner was Shane, my basketball player was ?, and my football player was Tag. (why can’t I remember my basketball player? Shawn Almond? Did he play basketball?)
17. I first got to know Tag in 8th grade. In junior high, the football players joined home economics class for laughs and Tag was placed in my cooking group. I cooked. He made jokes. We got an A.
18. An author followed our football team around all year and told our student body at a pep rally that he was going to write a book about Permian like the story “Hoosiers”.
19. He did write a book.
20. It is nothing like Hoosiers.
21. The book made me sad. The movie was weird to watch. The TV show is one of my favorites. Go figure.
22. The first time I took a computer class was my junior year.
23. We learned MSDOS code. We thought we were so advanced.
24. We often wrote words and messages on each other’s car windows with white shoe polish.
25. I remember the first time I heard the brass section play in a rehearsal at the band hall. It was impressive.
26. Mr Nail called me a slug once over his bullhorn.
27. I remember all the girls curling our bangs in the dressing room after early morning marching. And the smell of hairspray that permeated the air. Bangs were so important then. (Okay. Bangs are still important. We just don’t make them so big.)
28. The invention of the butane curling iron revolutionized life for the band girls.
29. The last time I ever marched, it was rainy and cold.
30. My dad always played Santa Claus at our half time show at Christmas.
31. Hawai 50!
32. I can still play part of the Mojo fight song on the flute. (powerful ☺)
33. Arlington High vs Permian was the best high school football game I have ever seen. Maybe that was ever played?
34. The Arlington High band got aggressive during our pre-game march around the track thing. The band. They marched into our band and hit us. Meanies. I thought we were really going to see Mr Nail’s head explode.
35. My friends gave me a surprise party for my 18th birthday.
36. I made a bet with my BFF that whoever married first had to buy dinner for the other at a very expensive restaurant when we turned 40. We got married within a month of each other. (after college, not in high school) I owe her dinner. Soon.
37. I loved sitting next to Karina in band. We were funny. (even if no one else appreciated the humor)
38. There was this one intersection of halls at Permian where you could barely move through between classes. You just sort of smooshed into an obscure sort of “lane” and inched your way in the direction of your next class. It was noisy and crowded and always made me nervous.
39. I think of that every time I drive in Kampala traffic.
40. I made first chair in the PHS band flute section exactly one time.
41. I never sat first chair because, well, Denise and Stephanie…but I told my dear friend Mary and she celebrated with me.
42. TACO VILLA!!!!
43. Before I got my car I rode to school in a white mustang with Jill. We were always running a wee bit late, so Jill had to drive fast. It broke her heart to do so because she was such a safe and conscientious driver. ☺
44. Open-campus meant we got to eat out for lunch. I thought this was so cool but it was also the most stressful time of day. Drive somewhere. Eat. Drive back. In 25 minutes.
45. Eating at Wendy’s always makes me think of Danny, Mary and a brown Honda.
46. I was president of the National Honor Society.
47. I was chaplain of band and choir.
48. I led a lot of prayers.
49. I had a Physics teacher named Mr. Hare who was completely bald. And he was a contortionist.
50. I started and ended every school day in the band hall. It was home away from home.
Our class became somewhat famous. We are the class from Friday Night Lights.
It was exciting to think of someone writing a book about our school. Until it was published. And then most folks were underwhelmed or irate. It is difficult to be scrutinized publicly.
I never played football. (shocker) But I was an active part of many other aspects of Permian High School. So, for me, the very public analysis of our football program, school and town never felt complete. Did Mr. Bissinger really do all his homework?
He never interviewed me.
Smile
Go MOJO! Keep supporting your kids.
I loved being a part of your tradition and memories!
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